Barefoot with Shoes to Fill

I know a guy who can remember when he was born. Seriously.

But I’ve never been so unfortunate, myself, with a childhood steeped in amnesiac haze. Apart from a few random strains of Bob Seger and Neil Diamond that crop up from time to time, the earliest I can remember is the day my adulthood began.

My sixteenth birthday.

I sat in the warm leather seat of my new used ‘88 Volvo 760 and felt like a king. Grateful, of course, but wondering how I got here, keys in the ignition and my adventurer parents arm-in-arm, beaming like maniacs.

Legend says I went to high school for a year and a half. It’s possible, I suppose, and this box full of dusty awards seems to back up the claim. But I don’t remember.

I was 16, and off to college. That’s all that mattered. An overachiever by birth, but certainly not by choice.

They say all parents want their children to surpass them in greatness. But how could I possibly compete with the bravest pair of yuppies east of the Mississippi?

Easy. I moved west of the Mississippi.

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